She lay awake for the better part of an hour.
The light streaming through half drawn blinds.
She did not cry, because there was nothing to cry about.
She did not smile, for she felt no joy.

Maybe it was talent, or maybe it was just that she'd been doing this alot lately.

When she thought about nothing and everything,
Simultaneously first, then at the same time.
So sporadic her thoughts became,
The idea of insanity was ingrained.

She had a father, a mother and a lover who cared.
She did not understand the reason of her despair.

She reminisces of old days, days face with enthusiasm and vigour.
She wonders what changed, what makes her want to pull a trigger.


She thinks about what's wrong and how it came to be so.
The questions have always been easy.
If only, the answers were so nice to her.

There is no sorrow to feel, no happiness to be glad.
There is only emptiness and desolation.
There is only detachment and isolation.

Its funny. Its downright hilarious.
People with tough lives achieve greatness.
While the mediocre lives stay bare and dead.
She lay there for the better part of an hour.
Dreading what lay ahead.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

I’m trying to grasp the concept of your hands grasping me, and there’s light in your serenely contorted sweat;
Bulging veins pressed against sweet warm delicate mouths exerting a mass of please, and please what?, and a quiet commotion of soft tongues making love, fighting slow and easy for something like a longer I love you, maybe, or another tight grip towards a vulnerable destination, where angels live in the whites of your glassy eyes, but I just want heavens doors to slam shut.
I might be the devil and I demand: “Oh please dear god”, but my body is your only savior and getting on your knees to worship a little never hurt anyone.
I ache for your touch, till your flames are still
I am swimming in thoughts of your ice-made skin, and I am satisfied with hypothermia
Beg for you to watch me choke on my breaths until you can write a whole new list of tasteful sins on my naked flesh.
I want to swallow you whole, want to melt away with you until we deliquesce into one.
I crave you
and me
a few hundred tick-tocks full of skin on
tender
post-possessed
skin.

There is oblivion. There is space.
There is futility. There is ubiquity.
There is pride. There is defeat.
There is emptiness. There is resentment.
There is darkness. There is rage.

The cacophony drowns all exaggeration.
It leaves no pity, offers no fight.

There is fury, it is black.
There is fury, it does not ****.
There is fury, it showers no wrath.
It rots, it stays, it rots some more.

There is hope. Hope is dying.
It bleeds away, a crimson trail.
The fury is poison, it will prevail.

Morbid humour, judicious hate.
Delightful anguish, dusty slate.
The mirror lets me walk away.